The Fall of Brian the Black Flame”

In the historical realm of Elarion, where magic wove through the land like mist, there as soon as rose a wizard so feared, so cruel, that even dragons whispered his identify in caution — Brian the Black Flame.

Brian used to be no longer born wicked.

He was once once a gifted scholar at the Tower of the Twelve Stars, the place younger wizards discovered to serve the Light. He used to be wise — brilliant, even — but impatient. While others spent years gaining knowledge of simple charms, Brian sought electricity that would shake mountains.

He found it in the forbidden archives — pages scorched with darkish runes, inked in blood, sealed for centuries.

He examine them all.

One by way of one, the Archmages who puzzled him vanished. Storms started to shape over the tower, unnatural and brooding. By the time they realized what he had become, it was once too late. The Tower of the Twelve Stars fell in a single night — bump off by using black fire.

Brian, now cloaked in shadow and fury, topped himself Lord of Elarion. He dominated from the obsidian fortress of Dreadspire, his throne carved from the bones of giants. He summoned monsters, cursed rivers, and bent the will of kings with a whisper. He outlawed hope and burned the remaining sacred forests.

For twenty years, Elarion groaned beneath his boot.

But evil constantly overreaches.

From the ashes of the Tower rose a resistance — scattered sorcerers, outcast knights, and a young warrior named Lyra Everwind, whose father Brian had grew to become into stone. Lyra used to be no in shape for Brian in strength. But she had something he had lengthy forgotten:

Love. Unity. And the will of the people.

She journeyed throughout the realm, gathering allies:

• The fire-druid Kael, who as soon as fled Brian’s wrath.
• The twins Nira and Nox, who spoke to spirits.
• And an old, blind seer who as soon as taught Brian before concern swallowed his soul.

Together, they wove the Last Spell of Unmaking — a powerful enchantment that may want to solely be cast with the aid of one who had nothing left to lose.

On the Night of the Blood Moon, they stormed Dreadspire.

Brian stood atop his black tower, laughing as armies crumbled earlier than his flame. But when Lyra appeared, carrying the blade of her petrified father — solid with his ultimate dwelling breath — his fireplace faltered.

“You suppose love will keep you?” he snarled.

“No,” Lyra said, “It will keep Elarion.”

As Brian unleashed a storm of black fire, Lyra dove via the inferno, blade in hand. With her pals chanting the Last Spell in the back of her, she plunged the sword into Brian’s chest.

The tower screamed.

Magic surged in a blinding wave, and Brian’s flames were extinguished — not simply from the realm, but from time itself. His name, as soon as burned into the skies, grew to be a whisper lost in the wind.

Dreadspire crumbled. The sky cleared. The rivers flowed pure again.

And from that day forward, the humans of Elarion sang now not of fear, however of the night time the Black Flame was dethroned.

They built a new tower — no longer of stars, but of voices — the place no know-how used to be forbidden, and no strength stood above the humans again.

As for Brian, his crown lies buried beneath the rubble of his own pride —
A reminder that *no darkness regulations forever.

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